


The Sparkling Diamond (of tattooine?)

by heywoodjablowme



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Anakin Skywalker Loves Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker is a Little Shit, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, No Smut, Obi-Wan Kenobi Can Sing, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Obi-wan is blushing virgin and closeted homosexual, POV Alternating, Prostitution, Romance, but maybe some fondling, dudes being gay prostitutes, idiot plot, just go with it, just guys being dudes, might make sense if youve never seen moulin rouge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heywoodjablowme/pseuds/heywoodjablowme
Summary: A Moulin Rouge AU/Crossover where Ewan McGregor stays his cute selfWhen Obi-Wan Kenobi is quite literally thrust into the bedroom of the sexiest man he has ever seen on the terms of pitching to him a play, he is not one to complain, but he just kind of wishes the guy would stop undressing him with his eyes so he can get a sentence out.Or where Anakin Skywalker wants to rip the clothes off of the sickeningly charming man who paid for his services for the night, but he wishes this guy would shut up about poetry already.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	The Sparkling Diamond (of tattooine?)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi whores! SO this is my first story on this wonderfully terrifying website and I would just like to say some stuff first!  
> I know this ship is disliked by many, and listen I agree with many people on their reason so I want to clarify;  
> 1\. The age gap between them is much shorter than canon, with Anakin only being Obi-Wan's junior by a couple of years.  
> 2\. They are well above the age of consent, and (almost) everything that happens in this story happened in the movie Moulin Rouge  
> 3\. NO weird power dynamics or imbalances between them, they are complete strangers who are equally confused  
> 4\. Last, I just like this ship because I love these two characters SOO fuckin much and I think they would make some beautiful melodies together ;-)
> 
> (p.s. no one beta'd this story for me so if you find any points of confusion let me know!)

“The greatest thing to learn is just to love,  
and to be loved in return”

Write, Write, write, dammit Kenobi! It can’t be that hard you self-assured idiot, this is your passion! Your livelihood! The whole reason you bought that bloody one way ticket to Paris! I will admit this drafty, and all the same chillingly cold and uncomfortably humid, apartment is no scene for great inspiration, but that has never stopped the great writers before me. The reaching eiffel Tower along the skyline no longer makes me want to jump from the rooftops any longer, it just more reminds me of how badly I would love a baguette right now. Or how such a blank and plain piece of parchment is mocking me so well, who are you looking at? Just write about… anything… The woman downstairs with the well-groomed moustache and her affinity for the most hideous garments seen by the naked eye, or the bumbling clouds outside my very window that blend in with the thick and sickly cigarette smoke coming from the street circus acts below, or - no, no, simpler! More modern, more edgy, more relevant, maybe love? Love! 

What is your obsession with Love, Obi-Wan? My father spits in my head back at me. Hm, good to know no amount of alcohol or smog infested air can get him out of my head.

But is he right? Am I simply a slave to the idea of love? Oh, now that is poetry- what an idea! OH how it could entertain the bohemian blunderers of this city, I could become the electrifying modern poet I aspire to be, but I must know of love first, yes, that is a problem, hm. I have always been the inwardly type, terribly shy and even more terribly foolish. The only woman I have ever spoken more than a compound sentence to is my mother, and that was if she cared to listen. One time I specifically remember vomiting in my own soup bowl just at the question of falling in love with a beautiful wife, maybe love is just not woven into my fate, but oh how I long to write of it. If only I could experience it, just to know for sure…

BAM  
“Ouch!”  
“Well don’t you believe you deserved that one, eh?”  
CRASH

How can inspiration hit you when your upstairs neighbors are already attempting to box each other within an inch of your patience? I mean what could they possibly be doing up there? Bringing the horse races home with them? How I wish I could storm up there and truly tell them how I feel about their noise-

And I have spoken too soon, for they have stormed themselves to me. I am locking eyes with an unconscious - and upside down, very important situational detail- frenchman who is hanging from the new giant hole in my ceiling. Fantastic, I always wanted a loft with a skylight.

Quickly waddling in seconds later, through my door very respectfully surprisingly, Is a large man with even larger beady eyes and the most pronounced ears I have ever seen, almost obnoxious enough to draw me away from the ridiculous hat that sits atop his head and cascades down his shoulders. Apparently he was supposed to be dressed as a nun, hm, tastefully sacrilegious.

“Hello Monsieur! I am Jar-Jar Binks of Naboo and I apologize for the interruption we are creating a play, something very modern, called Revenge of the Spectacular!” This man- Jar-Jar? Mr. Binks of Naboo?- nearly shouts in apology as his friend still sways from the ceiling by his foot.

“What?” Escapes my lips before I can stop it, but can you blame a guy for being bewildered beyond the point of control? I mean, come on, a man just crashed through my ceiling with horrendous makeup on and- wait, a play?

“My friend here has narcolepsy, which means he falls straight asleep at any time!’ Jar-Jar tells me with the strangest accent I have ever heard.

Suddenly above my head more brightly clothed beings -hopefully not humans- appear in my wonderful new room renovation with annoyed looks on their painted faces. “Great now we need a new play write, who can ever capture the essence of a sensitive and simple country goat hoarder?” They ask, almost as if god is playing a silly joke on me. My mouth betrays me again and I offer my skills to their “modern” play, and before I knew it I had lederhosen on and a new part to play. 

After proving my amateur but impressive song-writing skills to this group of fabulously fun simpletons- who I have now learned consist of a large but well-mannered piano player named Kit Fisto, comic relief and helpful hand around town Jar-Jar Binks, and a terrifyingly reserved dress-maker named Cody- we have now devised a plan to get our play to the “Moulin Rouge”. My father’s words again echo in my head, You will end up stuck with a whore at the Moulin Rouge, Obi-Wan!, but they promise me that it is a place of opportunity and yes, prostitutes. Jar-Jar insists that our idea must be presented by me, as I am paraded around in the finest Armenian suit these suckers can give to me, to Anakin. This name brings rosy cheeks and exhaled breaths from the group around me, and suddenly I feel less confident about my ability to sell this silly play, but god dammit as the late queen of France as my witness, I will try.

\------

The Moulin Rouge is a terrifyingly beautiful place. When my new group of acquaintances informed of this sensual wonderland they failed to mention how simply shocking the place is on the senses. Now when I think of it I’m sure this place is nothing but a little flirty to the average frenchman, but my god, to someone who did not know what a breast was until the ripe age of seventeen, the Moulin Rouge is like a bullet full of absinthe straight to the chest. Women, and some men alike, dance and shimmy like they want their knickers to fall down their knees- and hell who am I to stop them! The feeling of many mystery figures touching and feeling your coat jacket as if it were made of gold dust is a feeling I will not soon forget, and neither is the emotion of being pulled into a can-can by a man in a shockingly stretched and tight pair of striped pants. The winks and promises of the faces of all these can-can dancers makes me feel as though I am the only bachelor in the room, when the idea is far from true, especially when a certain Jar-Jar is pressed against my side as though he is attempting to pass straight through me. 

I could have sworn we were just on the dance floor, but the blur that is frilly skirts and expensive alcohol has apparently landed me abruptly in a booth surrounded by- thankfully- familiar faces. My friends all whoop and shout as if this is a sport to spectate, and a familiar sport at that. They knew all the right things to holler, especially to attract the attention of the fanciful dancers. In the haze of primitive arousal Fisto turns to remind both me and Jar-jar of the reason we came, reassuring us both a meeting with this Anakin figure is to be secured. Jar-Jar nods almost worridley but I still do not fully comprehend the importance or drama surrounding this man, who is supposedly my ticket into the bohemia hall of legends. Just when I was about to give a go at my best “one of the boys” shouts, the entirety of the Moulin Rouge goes silent, and a single blinding, but gloriously promising, light shines in the center of the ballroom. 

I hear Jar-Jar say a breathless statement into my ear about something of a “Sparkling Diamond-” but my attention is severely pulled elsewhere than the people I am sitting next to.

Hanging, no floating is a more appropriate word, from the ceiling is a stunningly and entrancingly gorgeous man. He sits graciously upon his swing with his legs folded over one another, to show of his intricate hosiery and stunning legs- have I said stunning already? Oh dear have I lost track of, well, anything that Isn’t this man. Perfectly curly deep dark blonde hair frames his face like it was made of silk, and his jawline that I can almost feel against my fingers as my mind reaches desperately for him. He lowers to the floor like an angel- have I died? Has the absinthe finally gone straight to my brain?- and steps off the swing with one strong, high heeled leg, that leads up, up, up, to his fitting waisted garters, leaving nothing to the imagination, unfortunately I still imagine much more than I should. It accentuates his shoulders strikingly, which look strong enough to hang off of, and melts in perfectly with his lacy dark button-up and ever-so classy top hat. 

The french will die, for love.  
They delight in fighting duels,

He smiles with mystery and sings with layers of oozing seduction, feelings received to me so strong I almost float across the gap separating us- until my bewilderment with this god made of lace is shocked to a stop with a strong tug on my Armenian suit sleeve.

“After his number, I have arranged a private meeting,” Jar-Jar speaks to me, the words barely materializing in my mind due to the cloud of lust it has found itself for far too many moments.

I gulp, almost comically, so... that is Anakin? The Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge? Quite possibly the very reason I might have to remain sitting for the rest of the evening? Binks must be joking, or I just might be the most unlucky blubbering fool that has stepped foot in the Moulin Rouge. It was only a meeting Obi-Wan, pull it together, this was your future on the line, your neglected crotch can take a back seat for one moment-

“Just you, and Sir Anakin, totally alone!” Seeming thrilled by the statement, Jar-Jar could not help but smile on the delivery, aided by the grins of all his hopeful friends surrounding him.

Nope, no, this was a dream. Or maybe I truly have died? No, impossible… heaven could not possibly smell like sweat and shoe polish… so this was all real… there must be a way out.

Gathering my courage I whimper out a questioning, “Alone?”, as if I needed to hear the answer again. I feel light-headed just thinking about it. Where is my cup? Maybe just a swig of liquid courage will help this feeling inside, but again my attention is drawn to the blinding smile of Anakin, in the center of the floor surrounded by rich men, touching him, giving him jewels, breathing his scent, and I lose myself again.

Anakin P.O.V.  
Nothing can replace this feeling, the reach of everyone’s eyes on me, no matter if they want to tear them away from or not. No amount of nasty 15 franc-a-sip liquor could possibly come close. As I lower to the ground, I have a mission in my head. It takes work to make this dance flow sweetly and seductively enough for men to open their wallets, and they always do. This show has become quite the routine to me as I step off my swing with a simple, but ever so graceful, kick and I am quickly surrounded by the audience. Now this, I could do without. Do I love the attention of stupidly naive rich men? Of course, who wouldn’t! But the reminder I am simply an object up for auction to them will never not stir something angry deep inside me, but no time for that, the show must go on!

Mister Watto tells me I have a very important client to… see tonight. I roll my eyes at the statement- he tells me they are the most important client every time, and they are always the same shriveled up rich dude with a wife and a deep desire to get boned- but he reassured me to make it count this time. This client, the Duke, is possibly going to invest in our pipe dream of transforming the grimy, but shiny, Moulin Rouge into a theater. A glistening theater, where I could finally be, a real actor. The thought gives me shivers, and now that it is even closer and more possible than ever? I could scream in joy, and I do, but disguise it as desire for the men in suits around me who think that their gloved hand is the lucky one I’ll choose tonight. How cute, but if they even so much as scratch this expensive black silk, I will show them exactly how good i can kick in these pumps.

I strut across the floor like I own it, which I might pretty soon, and I hear the click-clack of hoards of men following closely after me. I give them a grin I know is laced with intent and watch fumble for their wallets. Winking at the fellow dancers I walk -no sashay- past, I make my way to the center of the floor, where the spotlight is waiting for me like an old friend.

I turn towards the audience sitting in the comfortably expensive booths and lock eyes with a peculiar, starry-eyed ginger in a suit that is way too stuffy for him. The way he looks at me makes me almost lose my breath, his eyes look as though they have never seen anyone else but me and his hands itch and squirm in his lap, begging to reach out for me, so intense I almost feel them against my sides, but a face so innocently sincere I forget where we both are.Oh? Who are you? It has been quite a while since I have wanted a man for myself, and not just for a quick transaction, but there is something about this man, or maybe I am just hallucinating from all the goddamn diamond dust in my eye.

As soon as our eyes meet I quickly pull them away, I have a job to do Anakin, I remind myself and my legs carry me to my next steps, picking up the rhythm from my voice and the orchestra in a seamless dance.

A kiss on the hand can be, quite continental.  
But diamonds are a girl’s best friend

I sing as I snake over the body of a hopeful rich bag of bones, but before my lips meet his I turn away, showing off my best asset, and giving him a flirty kiss, enough to keep him blissful for the moment.

I take confident steps to the stage, fueled further knowing the eyes of that brightly handsome man might be looking at me, and meet my manager, Mister Watto, waiting for me at center stage. He is a short and stout man, with a face as old as time but the energy of a young jack rabbit, who wears fanciful ringleader outfits to draw away from his overall non-dominant demeanor. We have been in this business together since he opened the Moulin Rouge and he never forgets to remind me that I am the best dancer he’s got.

“So, is the duke here?” I ask him through my teeth, as not to distract the audience.

“Of course, when have I ever let you down?” Watto asks me, I chose not to answer to save us both the trouble. I discreetly roll my eyes and look at him in a silent question. Picking up on the obvious he looks behind me and whispers, “He is sitting in the booths, the one Jar-Jar is shaking a hanky at”.

I shimmy my way around to get a good look, my eyes land on Jar-Jar -a club regular and a pain in my ass- and see him waving said hanky to a man, a somehow familiar man, how do I know him- Oh. Oh! It was the sparkling ginger from earlier in the crowd! But he didn’t seem like a duke to me, and I believe I would know an entitled rich nimwit when I saw one. Seeing as though Watto could not be talking about anyone else in those seats, I am satisfied with my answer and turn back around.

After doing a silly and quick routine together to impress the crowd, we are given some quick moments in privacy as the can-can dancers around us lift up their skirts.  
I turn to him quickly once the faux-skirt-curtain is raised, “So, will he invest?”.

Watto looks almost hurt as I doubt his ability to barter with clients, but my piercing gaze cuts the shit short, “After a night with you, how can he refuse!” He laughs, and a slight shiver runs through my body, I can not exactly place if it’s excitement to learn more about that mysterious man with the doe eyes, or at the fact I have to spend another emotionless night of sex to keep Watto and I’s paychecks coming.

“Well, what’s his type?” I ask, almost too excitedly, as I hurriedly change from my previous outfit into the next one. “WIlting flower? Bright and Bubbly? or Smouldering Sex Kitten?” I finish with a growl.

He ponders my question for a moment, but finds his answer, “Smouldering Sex KItten.” He grins devilishly and my stomach flips, oh, I am going to have fun with this Duke.

“We are all relying on you, Anakin.” Watto reminds me, as if it needed to be said, and we both stand from our makeshift tent of dancers' skirts to the whoops and yells of the crowd below us. I agree with all the excitement this time, for the diamond encrusted leotard I have on, with the combination of white knee high socks and luxurious feathers sprouting from my hips, is quite the picture as I shake my hair out to fall around my face just as I planned for it to.

I attempt to find this Duke again in the crowd and the open-mouthed face of shock he gives in return is enough to keep me dancing for weeks. I shimmy and shake my way down into the crowd and again, when I am lifted up -as rehearsed- by multiple men and carried directly to my prey err- client for the night. He does not see me coming until by diamond dipped undergarments are twinkling inches from his face, and he looks up at me with those eyes and, well how is a guy supposed to work under these conditions? Up close I can see the man is slightly older than me, but still youthful in and out, and a face and neck I know I want to get my lips all over.

Barely hiding my own starstruck I muster up the confidence to whisper to him, “I believe you are expecting me.” and I can feel his bones shake from here.

“Yes,” He says all too quickly, which I believe he notices as hinted by the dark blush rising on his face, and swallows and sighs in his beautifully milky british accent, “Yes.”

Turning around, and promptly wacking this sweet Duke in the face with my peacock feathers, I gesture to the audience brightly, “Sorry boys, Diamond’s choice.”. I give a wink and a purr to set everyone up nicely to miss me and make my way to the back of the stage, giving a sway to my walk that no man in this theater will soon forget.

Now time to get ready for my very important client night.

Obi-Wan’s P.O.V.  
Is it normal for human hands to shake this much?  
Since when did I sweat from my palms?  
Is it really hot in here to anyone else too? No idiot, you’re standing on a terrace in the city at night, alone. Oh, right.

Remember your poem Kenobi, that is all you need to do. I rub the expensive and ill-fitting top hat in between my fingers until I am sure there is no more silky fabric left to see. Present to him the poem and the play, you know it is modern and chic, and not to mention your friends are counting on you. Although this ridiculously baroque and dripping in romance room is no setting for peaceful poetry reciting, as not-so-subtly hinted by the sprawling bed found right in the middle of the wall.

How bad could this meeting go? Hearing the sound of clothes rustling behind me I exhale a breath I did not even realize I was holding. No, no, this is good! Maybe he is slipping into something more comfortable, something less, sensual, or painted on with a brush made of gold and perfectly placed diamonds. You know, maybe he might be less intimidating when he doesn’t have the huge spotlight on him or hoards of men rubbing his body?

I turn around and soon find I have never thought a stupider sentence in my life, as Anakin stands near the entrance of this classy room, dawning only a long lace, floor-length, black robe, and beautifully made black silk panties. His toned abdomen is reflecting light from the chandeliers and his long, long, long, legs look even closer to a grecian marble statue when naked. The poem I had prepared sinks quickly down into my throat and seemingly drops itself into my stomach, as I stand like a useless fool raking my eyes over his body, only to realize his eyes were on me the entire time.

Oh, how I was there was a merciful god that would strike me down this instant.

“It is so… nice of you to take an interest in our show.” Anakin purrs with a rich baritone, practically enchanting my feet to move closer, only they don’t, for i fear if i step at all my knees might give.

“Oh, yes,” I squeak, come on Kenobi stand your ground!, “It is very exciting, I would be delighted to be involved.” The words come out quickly and more level than I expected, nowhere near as pathetic as I truly feel.

He raises an eyebrow at me as he trails a finger over an undoubtedly expensive champagne glass, “Oh really?”.

Oh yes really, In that sultry voice, he could make me believe anything. “Assuming you’ll like what I do of course!” I attempt to say teasingly, to try and level the tension between us, yet I am still standing like a young pup with its tail between its legs. I really do hope he likes the poetry, or else I will have nothing good to tell Jar-Jar.

Anakin chuckles across from me and looks up from his hands to meet my eyes, lord have mercy above I could write novels on those deeply colored diamonds. “I’m.. sure I will” He teases back with a grin of that glistening smile, which gives me some hope, but slight confusion when he begins to advance towards me in long, balanced strides. 

I try my best not to falter in my stance but this minx of a man coming towards me is quite a good reason to run for the hills. Although he only stands no more than a few inches above me, he carries himself as if his head touched the ceiling. “Uh, Jar-Jar promised me I would get to do my private poetry reading here.” I stammer out before I could embarrass myself by jumping onto Anakin quite inappropriately.

Anakin looks… surprised, but the glint in his eyes soon returns to a knowing one, the split-second switch making my head spin. “Oh yes,” He slurs, “Well, this is a wonderful place for a poetry reading, don’t you think?” He cocks his head up and looks down at me through half-lidded eyes, giving me a look so laced with intent it made my mouth water.

He doesn’t think I am here for-? No! Jar-Jar reassured me that this was a business meeting, a meeting about a poem… the poem! This brilliant devil nearly made me forget what I was here for, if only he would don an extra layer or two so I could focus... or he could stay in his current state of undress… maybe more… poem!

“I would rather we would get this over and done with,” I blurt out, not truly meaning what I said but deeply knowing to stay here any longer will only lead to deep, unforgettable embarrassment on my part.

Anakin seems to freeze after those words left my mouth, confusion setting into those amazing cheekbones and piercing eyes. “Oh,” He cuts out, dipping his chin down at me in a look of, one could almost say, disappointment? There is a deep feeling in me that screams I would do anything to make sure he never looks at me in that way again, but he fixes his face before I can try and look deeper. He turns towards the single queen bed in the room, and as he takes a few steps closer he stops, and turns to me, leveling my gaze, dropping the sheer robe off his shoulders just the slightest amount, “Very well.” Leaning down onto the bed, he lowers his body onto the pillows ever so tastefully slowly, and throws his head back, dark curls going with it. “Then why don’t you, come down here.” He grins and throws open his robe, revealing the muscles I had been nearly but drooling over for the agonizingly long minutes I saw them. “And get it over with?” He teases. The way his abs flex as he props himself up onto his elbows is like watching a hundred unanimous can-can dancers do their kicks and spins. Anakin knows what he is doing to me as he spreads his legs, just the tiniest amount, but every single inch of his body is being tracked by my eyes, no little movement is missed. My mouth goes dry and my fingers buzz all at the same moment, is this cardiac arrest? Oh how terribly comically to die by arousal, and terribly realistic.

I cough, more to remind myself I need to breath than to cut the tension, “I prefer to do it standing.” I exclaim as an attempt to regain some confidence but coming from my lips, that just did not sound quite like I wanted it to. Anakin shrugs and begins to move off the bed but I realize my mistake before he can move again. “Oh- but you don’t have to stand.” He looks confused by my statement, “it’s just that, well, it is quite long.” I admit, lord he probably does not have time to listen to some lengthy bohemian poetry. 

What are you doing here Kenobi?

Anakin looks startled, yet intrigued by my comment, so I decide to clarify further, “I just want you to be comfortable…” I trail off, not so self-assuredly, and notice the grin that spreads across his face. A smile akin to a circus goer watching a clown i imagine. The nerves in my chest, my gut, my head, hells above even my groin, became too much for me to handle, “Excuse me.” I politely interject and walk farther from the bed to face away from the chiseled sun god lounging behind my head. 

Deciding it is now or never for my future as a write to be achieved I quickly turn on my heels and try to regain posture, enough for me to start my poem.  
“That’s- The -ahem- the s-sky! It’s-” I am interrupted by Anakin, who I assume is thoroughly enjoying himself on the bed, as he is on his knees, thrusting towards the air slowly and throwing his head back, moaning to himself. “The b-blue bluebirds-” He chuckles at my stammering with his wicked smile and my breath is ripped straight from my lungs, as if god squeezed his hands around each of my lungs, and the poetry unfurling inside of my head has been lost. 

I turn from the foul temptress on that bed with a scowl and begin talking myself into another go, do it for the suffering artists on the streets of Paris, Obi-Wan! And I begin to regain my train of thought. 

“Um, is everything alright” He inquires, sounding almost… bored.

I turn back to him with a scowl that makes his bunched up eyebrows raise even higher in utter confusion, as if I am the one out of sorts here Sir Anakin! “Yes,” I snap, then quickly reel back in once I notice he is now leaning off the bed, forearms resting on his thighs as he dares me to move with a look. My skin is electric and my dizzying thoughts are starting to merge into one coherent word -Anakin- but goddammit this poem needs to be read! “I’m just a bit nervous,” I admit looking at the hat still held between my shaky hands, “You know it just… takes a while for inspiration to come.” I chuckle and look up at Anakin still on the bed.

The knowing look in his eyes stays locked on my mine as he rises from the bed -since when was he that tall?- and takes the two confident steps to come meet me. I can see every single one of his eyelashes this close, along with the plush parting of his lips, so close to mine…

“Here, let me help,” He all but whispers in my ear, from this proximity I can feel it against my face and the hairs along my arms stand up all at once. Suddenly his arm moves from behind him and straight to my crotch. In an educated grab he presses up against my clothed dick with his strong, and wonderfully precise, hand. Lord, help me now. I think as every fiber in my body lights up and my knees seemingly forget to function. I gasp and look up at Anakin with unfiltered shock and arousal. The thoughts running through my head all come to a shocking halt and all I can think about is how good that goddamn hand would feel without so many unnecessary layers. 

He answers my gaze with a proud one, eating up every ounce of shock and shame I am showing. He keeps his hand there and smiles, no smirks, at me, “Does that inspire you?” He purrs into my ear and I have now saved this memory as the most erect I have ever been while attempting to read poetry. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me unto the bed, in a show of force that my dick responds to rather nicely, and quickly joins me on the sheets.

“Let’s get it over with, hm?.” He growls at me and throws his toned legs over my body, grabbing my wrists and lowering himself onto my neck. Oh, oh, this is a problem, but a very lovely feeling problem at that. I instinctively arch my back into him, and feel quite pathetic for doing so. Where is your spine Kenobi? You came here to pitch a play! But the feeling of his tongue on my neck quickly made my vision and mind blurry again. The way this devil is rolling his body down onto mine is making it extremely difficult not to scream into the open air of his room, especially with my mouth perpetually hanging open as if it were trying to catch flies, but it feels like heaven on earth. He knows what he is doing to me and he knows what he wants from me, I can tell from the hand he travels down my forearm to my side and the way it lingers as if awaiting its next task.

“Well, actually, I came to-” I manage to stutter out between whimpers and he lifts his head full of curls up at me. Those eyes became a much richer color than I remember and how they stare into my soul, and almost through my clothes, sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes challenge me to deny him any of what is taking place, especially since he can feel my slight erection absolutely agreeing. “-read you a poem,” I gasp and he lets go of me, only to inch down the bed further.

“Oh tell the truth.” Anakin scoffs and weaves his hands under my dress shirt and vest, feeling my bare skin and bloody hell does this man know how to cause a distraction.

“No really I-” I pull my head down to look at him the exact moment he connects his downright criminal mouth directly above my hip bone. “Great gods above!” I shout and throw my head back into the pillows, which really are quite comfortable and probably laughably expensive. My hips are truly working on a mind of their own right now and the traitorous rhythm they have found themselves in is not helping my cause.

Maybe poetry can wait? 

Oh lord is there a special level of Dante’s Inferno designated for me.

Anakin’s P.O.V.  
How sweet the world is to me sometimes, truly, I think as I take in the charming man twiddling his thumbs in the middle of my room. Oh please daddy, can I keep him? 

Although there is something about this man, the blushing virgin he seems to be is hidden far, far, down beneath an exterior of intelligence and self-assured confidence, well I believe so. Maybe he might be more confident if he weren’t holding a top hat over his pants as if they were sewn to each other, oops, is that my fault?

This sweet thing has been babbling about some poetry reciting he must inform me of, and I have experienced my fair share of roleplay so this angle is no surprise to me, but he seems very committed to his character. So, I stick to being smolderingly sexy and working my robe, which is not hard, the thing practically does the working for me - i certainly paid enough for it! But i must admit, I’m getting a little restless. Rarely do I find myself wanting to actually jump the bones of my clients but this guy, this Duke, is something else. He nervously smiles at me like a small schoolchild with a handful of garden flowers but his eyes give away so much, I can practically see fantasies being woven in his head behind those eyes. If only he would just step, a little closer…

But alas, he stands across the room from me, leaving me cold and oh so lonely on this large bed, specifically made for one thing, can I make it any more obvious to the guy? I notice he gulps as I spread myself on the bed, Watto always agreed my body is my most profitable asset, so might as well try and show this guy his money’s worth if he won’t do anything with it. Spreading my legs the tiniest inch sparks him into action and his fingers are practically tearing apart that stupid hat.

He begins, actually reciting poetry. Hm. Well that is funny. The words coming from him are barely comprehensible with how shaky and uncertain they are. I don’t care to find out what kind of poem he is weaving exactly because an idea sparks before I can stop myself.

I play along with his silly poetry reading and sit up on my knees, letting my hands travel down my body to the choppy rhythm of his words, adding an extra high moan whenever he stammers for the next word.

This impromptu poetry sharing is cut short as he gulps, very audibly so, and scurries further from me -by god do I have to lasso him?- as he mutters a quick “excuse me”. The smile that spreads across my face is nothing short of absolute amusement and utter enchantment. I am falling way too fast for this ginger and freckle sprinkled Duke. I fear I will crash through the floor any minute. 

My smile falls once I hear something, is he talking to himself? It seems he is… giving himself a pep-talk.

At this point by dick is about to hop out of my silk panties itself and wander up to the man, but I cut them both some slack, “Um, is everything alright?” I ask, not even attempting to hide the boredom in my voice. I’ll give him ten minutes before I take matters into my own hands- hm, matters, never called my penis that before.

“Yes.” He snaps in that uptight british accent, with a scowl I could get used to seeing on that pretty face more often, oh I like you mad Duke. I swing my legs off in front of the bed and lean onto them, giving him a challenging gaze. Yet he shrinks back once he sees me return the fiery passion in his eyes, almost looking ashamed. Come on! Must I spell it out for you handsome? 

“I’m just nervous,” Oh, that’s what this is about? He looks down at his hands again and it starts to make sense. Hey, when I’m nervous I smoke a cigarette, but if poetry reading is your nervous tic, all you had to do was say so! “It just...” He swallows and meets my gaze, more confident than he was before and my stomach stirs with anticipation, “It takes a while for inspiration to come.” He chuckles sweetly and squares his shoulders at me. Finally! My insides scream and I begin to play along with this scene, like any real actor would, and rise from the bed, eyeing the man like a prize to be won.

God, this man smells like a field of the most potent spring daisies up close. I can see his beautifully misty blue eyes and how they lock onto mine as if embracing me already. His perfectly combed, quaffed, and parted hair is begging for me to run my hands through it and his fingers still twitch, oh those hands, perfectly smooth I imagine from a life of luxury. My own hands almost begin to shake with want this close to him, but I manage to keep my cool persona to lean towards his ear and whisper, “Here, let me help you” as I can’t hold back my grin.

Never one to miss an opportunity as his hands drop to his sides, finally, I sweep my hand to grab at his crotch that I know has been neglected all night. The reaction is immediate; his body jumps at the touch and his jaw drops, a gasp that feels like sin fills my ears and his face can’t hide any of the emotions he feels.

“Does that inspire you?” I tease and absolutely eat up the look he is giving me. He looks at me like the hand I have on his dick is the only thing keeping him standing up, and I don’t doubt that is the truth. I let myself launch into the actions I have wanted to take on this poor man the minute I saw him in the crowd, and I grab his shoulders, swiveling him to the bed and carelessly pushing him into it. This Duke is in very similar stature and height to me, but throwing him around was too fun to pass up. Following closely behind him I straddle his hips and grab those goddamn hands that have been driving me wild all night by the wrists, effectively pinning them to the lush bed sheets beneath us. I have to stifle a victorious laugh as the man beneath me breathes short and quick, squirming with energy.

Oh, you are staying here for a while mister, I am going to chain him to my bed if I have to.... Now that’s a thought.

“Let’s get this over with, hm?” I say almost mocking him with his own words as I lower my lips onto his neck. Holy shit he’s burning up, his neck is so soft and warm against my mouth I forget where I am for a moment, but quickly snap out of it as I feel the vibrations of a choked off moan coming from him. If just my lips can draw such good sounds from this Duke, I wonder what sounds I can elecit with my-

“Well, actually, I came to-,” He gasps, “Read you a poem!” He finishes like it took all his strength to say it. I remove myself from his throat and catch his eyes, again with this silly poem?, I stare at him, fiery eyes quieting him for the moment and I take my chance to explore more. 

I want him to really tell me what he wants, not just cover it up with some fib about waxing poetic. “Oh, tell the truth.” I almost spit out, I just want to make you feel good Duke, what is so hard to comprehend about that? Once my hands untuck the nicely pressed shirt from his royally expensive slacks I immediately snake my hands into his clothes feeling the tight muscles underneath, interesting…

He looks down at me to respond to my question “No, really-” He starts, most likely about his poetry again, but I quickly scheme the fastest way to shut him up. Reaching down I move my mouth against his skin, a mere inch above his hips, and that seems to do the trick. He throws his head back into the sheets with a not so silent “oh” and raises his hips to me. Yes! Now we’re making progress! I continue to work my lips and teeth against his hip bone until I feel his hands fly to my hair. Yes, yes! Do what you want with me Duke! Pull at my hair, shove my face down your body further, let me taste your sweet- but suddenly his other hand found my shoulder and shoved, with an astonishing amount of force, and I’m pushed back onto my heels. 

Left in shock I bounce back onto the bed and watch in awe as he writhes out from underneath me to stand in front of the bed. He brushes himself off, straightens his suit, and tucks in his pristine pure white shirt. He coughs out a laugh and turns to me in shock, “It’s a little bit funny,” he says, and his hands began to fidget again.

“What?” I say, completely lost for words.

“This f-feeling inside…” He looks anywhere in the room but me, the knitted eyebrow expression of confusion making him look all the more gentler, “I am not one who can- who can easily hide.” He looks at me for reassurance, and I realize... he is rhyming to me. Quite literally waxing poetic. “Is- Is this okay?” He stops for a minute and meets me with pleading eyes.

So, his thing is poetry? It is not a defense mechanism, but a fun thing to recite in bed? Listen, the man is paying me a hefty amount for my time, and I know I will have more fun if I play along, so I give in.

“Poetry… oh, yes! This is what I want, your naughty words!” I whine as I rebuild my previous bravado. 

The Duke looks slightly confused by this confession, but continues with the poem he was creating, “I don’t have much money,” He declares, but I am too busy rolling around on the bed, making quite the show to accompany his words. “But boy, if i did,” He continues, though the words are lost on me as I whimper and moan to his voice, hopefully playing along to his fantasy. “I would buy a big house, where we both could live.” Distantly, his words sound so genuine, I almost wish he would lie to me now. A house? With him? Our future? Oh no, what have I gotten myself into? To distract myself from this sudden hole he has dug for both of us I make my motions even more extravagant. I crawl onto the ground and grind into the floor, grunting wildly to cover up his sickly sweet words that fill the room.

He looks down at my form in complete confusion now, almost a sense of worry clouding his features, but he attempts to carry on, even with my sounds echoing off the walls.

“Oh, oh, yes!” I scream, rolling onto my back and sliding my hands down my body, under the robe, giving him a show he can’t ignore, but the words fall flat in his mouth. He closes his mouth, as if giving up, and lets his frustration get the best of him. Turning towards the windows, he belts out the beautiful chords;

My gift is my song,  
And this one’s for you.

All the chaos and constricting feelings in my body silence themselves, and it feels like all of Paris does too, and I raise myself to sit. He turns towards me, eyes the softest they’ve been all night, no longer seeking permission but knowing what he wants to do, and what he wants me to hear.

You can tell everybody,  
This is your song.

I fear that I quite like this poetry, especially coming from his lips.

It might be quite simple but,  
Now that it’s done,

He turns his body to face me and hope washes over his features as he meets my eyes, the awe I feel no doubt showing across my features. So much for acting. I let the robe fall from my shoulders and simply let his words wash over me.

I hope you don’t mind,  
I hope you don’t mind,  
That i put down into words,  
How wonderful life is,  
Now you’re in the world.

The Duke beams through the last lyric, not afraid to truly show me, really tell me the truth. My breath is taken away, never has someone, a client or passerby, sang to me like this, sang to me like I was the angel to guide them on their journey. The feeling was dizzying, but his eyes grounded me, those brilliant bright blue eyes that let on more than they see.

Almost, without control, I rise to my feet slowly, but excitedly. I glide over to meet him on the terrace and he welcomes me with his eyes. He licks his lips and smiles, “You are the sweetest thing, I have ever seen.” He exhales with such honesty and I refrain from jumping into his arms. Instead he delicately grabs my hand, and rests the other on my waist. He looks up at me, asking for permission, and I realize he wants to dance.

The sickly sweet intentions of this man are making my vision blur, when is the last time someone wanted to delightfully dance with me instead of ripping through my clothes? I remind myself that he is paying for this time, for me, for my body, but the way he guides me across my room in a gentle sway and salsa, it almost seems as though he is here for… my heart? Goddammit this Duke is a charmer, making me believe in love at first tango. He smiles prouder than I have ever seen as we match our rhythm comfortably. I let myself beam at him too, and even let a chuckle slide when we step into a twirl, my robe floating nicely after me.

“How wonderful life is,” He continues, singing lightly and moving his hands to the small of my back, “Now you’re in the world.” He whispers to me, and gently dips me, with again more strength than I expected from him, but I let him, all but eating up his expression of utter infatuation. 

God I hope I don’t look that lovesick in return. But is it not what I truly feel? Oh dammit.

“I can’t believe it.” I laugh, still being held by him, “I am in love.”

He lights up so bright I almost feel the need to squint.

“I am in love,” I continue, “With a talented, handsome, young Duke” finishing with an exhale of gratitude. He giggles in confusion at my statement.

“A Duke?” He questions. Oh no, hopefully he doesn’t think I just want his money, I mean I would love it of course but this time, it is terribly different.

“Well, not that titles are important of course.” I respond sweetly feeling the lines of his face, as he keeps me held off the ground.

He again laughs, “I am not a Duke.” answering simply.

I freeze. “Not a Duke?” I press-on, trying to remain bubbly.

“No.” He smiles down at me, “I am a writer.”

In a quick movement I transfer my arms around him and twist us so I am looking down upon him now. “A writer?” I interrogate, not able to hide the peril in my eyes.

“Yes, a writer.” He laughs nervously in my arms, as I hold him steady. He searches my face for a reason to be worried but tries to clarify the situation, “Well Jar-Jar-”

Shit. Oh Goddammit. You have got to be kidding me.

“Jar-Jar?” I growl, lifting him up, back onto his feet. “Oh no, no, no, please tell me you are not another one of Jar-Jars charmingly talented tragically impoverished bohemian writing prodigies?” I ask pacing the room in front of him as he stays on the terrace, scanning my form to try and figure out the situation at hand.

He puffs his chest at the string of compliments, oh no, “Well yes I guess you could say so.” He smirks.

I ball my fists and whip my head towards this charming impostor standing in my room. “I am going to kill him!” I shout, effectively scaring this poor stranger. He begins to back up from the fit I am about to throw, but tries his luck anyway, “What?” He yells.

“The Duke!” I shout at him as if he was an idiot to not know, but I just need someone to throw my anger at or these pillows might be ripped to shreds. “The man I was supposed to be meeting with tonight!” I clamber around my room and throw open my door to see Watto politely chatting with who I can only assume is the real Duke I should have met with. He is old, much older than Watto, and has a perpetual scowl that drags down the rest of the wrinkles on his pale, sickly face.

As soon as I open the door, I slam it shut and turn to my gorgeous friend, who seems to be in attack position for whatever is coming. “Hide!” I yell to him and he darts out of sight, bumping into my cart of wildly expensive liquors in the process.

So am I not getting paid?

**Author's Note:**

> EEEE hope you enjoyed! Apologies for the abrupt ending but I just really wanted to make a quick one-shot of some of my favorite scenes from Moulin Rouge, but if yall wanna see a fully fledged angst and smut filled Moulin Rouge AU holler at me because I am down!


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